


our chosen homes

by rohkeutta



Series: a song on a policeman’s radio [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Cabins, Fluff, M/M, Or brush them very well, Say goodbye to your teeth, Slice of Life, Two old men being sappy and gay in the wilderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 08:05:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10692984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rohkeutta/pseuds/rohkeutta
Summary: “It’s been freezing,” Steve repeats as he drops the wood in front of the fireplace, throws two logs in to make sure that the fire isn’t going out.“Huh,” Bucky murmurs absently from the folds of his blanket, and Steve has to squeeze him a little as he passes, rub his cold nose against the vulnerable patch of skin behind Bucky’s ear. Bucky yelps, a high-pitched sound muffled by the duvet he’s wrapped in, and Steve laughs, kisses his ear on the way to get more water from the well.





	our chosen homes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissyPJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissyPJ/gifts).



> My lovely friend Helene told me to write a fluffy ficlet to cheer myself up, and I ended up with like 700 words of pure sap.  
> Special thanks to Jo for checking my grammar! Title is from Mumford & Son's Below My Feet.

“It’s gone below freezing during the night,” Steve says as he gets in, carrying an armful of firewood. He’s glad he put the gloves on before going out.

“Hmm?” Bucky’s standing in front of the old stove, still looking half-asleep; he’s wrapped up in a huge blanket, yawning, with only his fluffy hair and woolen sock-clad feet visible. There’s a pot of water on the stove; Bucky looks like he’s waiting for it to boil so that he can make coffee.

“It’s been freezing,” Steve repeats as he drops the wood in front of the fireplace, throws two logs in to make sure that the fire isn’t going out.

“Huh,” Bucky murmurs absently from the folds of his blanket, and Steve has to squeeze him a little as he passes, rub his cold nose against the vulnerable patch of skin behind Bucky’s ear. Bucky yelps, a high-pitched sound muffled by the duvet he’s wrapped in, and Steve laughs, kisses his ear on the way to get more water from the well.

Bucky mumbles a warbled curse after him, and keeps watching the kettle.

It turns out to be a beautiful day, when the sun melts the frost-flowers from the windows; the sky is brilliantly blue, and the autumn foliage makes the trees look like they’re ablaze. Even Bucky comes outside, wrapped in three layers of clothes and a blanket, and sits in the porch swing, fingers curled around a book, watching Steve putter around the yard. That’s something Steve likes about the cabin: there’s always something to be fixed or done, if he feels like it, but nothing so urgent that they can’t also just laze around. Bucky’s been feeling a little under the weather lately, so Steve’s more than happy to let him take it easy.

By the time Steve stomps back on the porch, Bucky’s fallen asleep in the swing. He looks younger when he sleeps: his cheek is resting against the soft grey blanket, and his long eyelashes are casting sharp shadows on his skin. Steve leans against the porch post and watches him for a long while, marveling at the luck that brought them together. Steve gets this, now; gets the cabin, gets the long days of being outdoors and relaxing; and, most importantly, gets Bucky. 

He gets Bucky like he’s never gotten him before: wearing two pairs of woolen socks and with loose strands of hair escaped from his ponytail, reading thick sci-fi paperbacks and doing crosswords, trying to identify birds by their calls alone, falling asleep anywhere and anytime just because he’s free to do so.

When he’s gawked enough, Steve goes to sit down next to Bucky in the swing. The movement wakes Bucky up, and he blinks at Steve groggily, extends a hand from beneath the blanket.

“Hey,” Steve says, takes Bucky’s hand and kisses his fingers. “I was trying not to wake you, sorry.”

“‘S alright,” Bucky says, his voice thick from sleep. “How long did I sleep?”

Steve shrugs a little. “Not really sure. Half an hour, maybe? You were awake when I last saw you.”

Bucky hums, burrowing deeper into his cocoon. “It’s nice. Quiet. Easy to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, smiling. “Want some hot chocolate? I feel like having something warm.”

“Sure,” Bucky replies, yawning. He makes a move to sit up better, but Steve stops him.

“I’ll make it,” he says, and presses a kiss on the back of Bucky’s hand. “Stay warm.”

Bucky laughs at him, but lets him go. When Steve comes back with two mugs, Bucky opens his blanket a little in a clear invitation. Steve sits down and drapes the shared end of the blanket behind his back, so that Bucky can lean into him, fit himself under Steve’s arm. Bucky pushes his feet between Steve’s legs and curls his hands around the mug, inhaling deeply. 

“‘S nice,” he murmurs again, and his hair tickles Steve’s nose a little.

Steve laughs and takes a sip. The cocoa isn’t as great as when Bucky makes it, but it’s hot and good enough, and privately Steve thinks that having Bucky pressed up against him, red-cheeked and sleepy-eyed from the autumn mountain air, would make any drink taste better.

Bucky falls asleep again like that after drinking his cocoa: curled up under Steve’s arm, legs sideways over Steve’s lap, lax fingers holding the empty cup between their bodies. Steve holds him close, watches the birds chittering in the red and yellow trees, and thinks,  _ I could live like this every single day. _

**Author's Note:**

> [My tumblr.](http://rohkeutta.tumblr.com)


End file.
